Bloor Line, content.

Caucasian woman, mid 50s, wearing a red-checkered shirt, sun hat and large, round sunglasses.

Airborn, Kenneth Oppel (HarperCollins)

Page 171:

The wind had a voice and it was howling and cursing, and whenever it died down for a moment I would pray that this was finished, that it had spent itself, but then the rain would crash down with renewed hatred, and the wind would shriek again as if all the heavens were its bellows, aimed at our island.

Some days are better than others. Today, for one. Her underwear didn't pinch at the waist. That flip in her hair cooperated. Coffee didn't ache her belly. She'd managed, somehow, to get away with a crueller for breakfast. The train had come on time. Space had opened up. She'd settled in the middle, hitting every curve of that track like she was a sixteen year old boy riding the curl of a Maui wave. Then she'd turned the page and the "wind has a voice and it was howling..." That's all it took. Her mother dead. Her alone. Playing out days in cups of coffee and doughnuts; her book, her best friend.